Mourning a Burglar
by Leafy Lincoln
Summary: It's not until long after the battle is over and won that they find him. AU Post-Battle of the Five Armies


It's not until long after the battle is over and won that they find him.

They find him sprawled on top of a warg carcass, arms open wide and head tilted up as if embracing those final moments of life. Those once bright clothes are ripped and stained beyond recovery, doing nothing to hide the hideous gashes engraved into his body. His eyelids are closed shut; no one voices it, but they are thankful, for they would not have had the heart to look into those now dull, lifeless eyes

They formed a circle around him, clearing the bodies away, mumbling solemnly with a touch of pride that he had died fighting. Not a single tear is shed, none wanting to tarnish his memory; though no one is certain how long they can abide by this silent agreement. Letting themselves go and openly weeping would be admitting the truth, something that no one wants to speak aloud.

Their burglar is gone and he won't be coming back.

More than one of their minds raced back to the countless times where they doubted his commitment, betted on how long he'd stay- whether or not he'd just leave and never return. To the times where they lost sight of him and assumed he'd abandoned them, left them for dead; believing their cause to be hopeless and unsuccessful, their homeland forever lost.

_And that's why I came back- because you don't have one._

He always seemed to pop back into their lives in some way or another, erasing all doubts. Proving time and time again that he did, and would, always come back to them. Despite his reluctance for adventure and desire to return to the comfort of his home, he did all that he could to give them theirs. He kept on coming back, reassuring that he wasn't leaving them to die- abandoning them and their dreams- casting them off when the time came.

He'd become their closest ally- closest friend, one who would stick with them till the end. Promising that he'd do what he could, no matter that he was in danger or that he was frightened out of his wits. The obstacles that got in their way, he braved them better than most, showing his devotion and heart.

Never before had they been so wrong to judge.

Not too far off, settled in the head of a warg long-dead, is Sting.

The cerulean glow has long faded, just like the soul of its wielder. The small sword looks like any other weapon after war- tarnished and grimy, caked with dirt and stained with blood. Yet, the little toothpick of a weapon looks more glorious than anything else on the battlefield; simply because they know that it is _his_.

They can almost picture it- picture him. Standing there, surrounded by creatures birthed from nightmares that scream and taunt him during his final moments, trembling with pure, unadulterated fear. The way he clenches his jaw, finally steeling himself as he grips his sword all the tighter, eyes flashing with determination and courage scraped from his very soul. How he charges, stubby legs struggling to support his battered form as he takes his final stand. His blade easily deflected seconds before something sharp pierces his skin, drawing a surprised gasp from his mouth. The gurgles of blood as a few spams hit his overworked body before it- he stills. His body slumping forward, only to be shoved back by the enemy who quickly runs him through again before moving on to its next victim.

They can almost picture him lying there, choking on his own breath and blood, eyes searching for some relief, but finding nothing and no one.

He looks incredibly small compared to the enormity of the scene around them; a creature too innocent for violence, too pure for the struggle of war.

One of the princes silently walks over to the small sword and yanks it free from the warg. Some of the original company grimly stare at the sword, while the other only have eyes for their fallen friend.

The silence of the post-battle is heavy, as is the air. Breathing has become a struggle, an agonizing chore they are not sure is worth the effort. Their hearts pound frantically against their chests, in a frenzy, begging to be ripped out in a desperate attempt to escape the burn of agony.

It isn't until Thorin, King under the Mountain, limps over, aided by Dwalin, that the silence is broken. They crowd around closer, kneeling next to their fallen comrade, in order to hear his hushed voice. "We have lost a member of the company... a company that knew of the risks when first setting out on this treturous journey. Our burglar was no exception. He knew of the danger… of the possibility of death..."

One of them lets out a sob, but no one looks up to identify the individual.

"His courage and loyalty could rival any dwarf. He has- had proven his worth on countless occasions…" There is a pause where only the sound of their ragged breathing is heard. The dwarf king himself sounds beaten, the anguish clear in his voice and appearance. "He gave his heart to those who had no claim over it, gave help to those who did not want it, and gave hope to those who did not deserve it."

Then, suddenly, all the dwarves are grabbing hold of one another, struggling to keep their composure. They reach out toward the hobbit, fingers trembling ever so slightly at his pale complexion and unresponsive form. A pair of hands gently settles Sting in his grasp, whispering that a warrior as honorable as him shouldn't pass on into the afterlife without a weapon. Someone pushes back his unruly, wet curls from his forehead, breathing out a prayer to Mahal.

They shout to the heavens their grief, challenging it to bring back their friend. They curse in their old language the courageous foolishness of hobbits and the blind pride of dwarves.

Men and elf alike pass by, noticing the small band of saddened dwarves, but never approach. The dwarves are left alone in their mourning for their fallen burglar.


End file.
